


and it hurts like hell.

by ProHeroKali



Series: The Princess and the Archer [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F!Byleth, F/M, Fluff, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProHeroKali/pseuds/ProHeroKali
Summary: He'd been asked to bring home something sweet today; and, by the goddess, was he weak for that smile.





	and it hurts like hell.

It was nearing dusk by the time Cyril returned, trudging through the light dusting of snow up to the small, isolated cabin he had taken to calling home, carrying a bulky canvas bag over his shoulder. Usually he wouldn't have stayed out this long; an ever present sense of unease hung over him anytime he even considered leaving the property as of late.

But, he'd been asked to bring home something sweet, and, by the _ goddess_, was he weak for that smile.

Pushing his way inside, he noted with mild concern that it wasn't much warmer than outside. Looking at the fireplace across the room, he saw that it was just embers left. He'd been sure to start and stoke the fire before leaving, but that'd been hours ago.

His concern turned to stomach-pitting worry, and he picked up the pace, not even bothering to remove his bow from where it was slung across his back.

"Lysithea?" he called, heading down the hall to their bedroom, forcing himself to stay calm.

Relief washed over him as he heard that adorable voice reply, "Cyril?", from behind their ajar bedroom door.

Taking a moment to gain his composure, he slipped into the room.

Inside, Lysithea was laying on their bed, her head and back propped up with several pillows so she wasn't just flat on her back. She'd covered herself with both of their quilts, the thick blankets pulled up almost to her chin. Loose papers were spread over her lap and the bedside table, papers that Cyril recognized immediately as her treasure trove of letters.

"Takin' a trip down memory lane?" he asked, flashing her a tiny smile.

Her face, sallow as it was, brightened as she took in the sight of Cyril.

"You're back!" she exclaimed, and the smile she gave him made his heart skip a beat.

Her eyes glittered as they zeroed in on the bag hanging from his shoulder, and she licked her lips. "And I see you've fulfilled my request!"

"'Course I did," Cyril said. He pulled his bow and quiver off over his head and set them near the door before doing the same with his boots. Then, he shuffled over to her side, shrugging off the bag and, after she gathered up the letters and set them in a neat pile on the table, placed it on her lap.

"Whatever the princess wants, she gets," he said with a lop-sided grin, and leaned down to give her a quick peck on the lips.

She giggled as he did, one hand reaching up to caress the side of his face, keeping his lips pressed to hers a moment longer.

When he pulled away, his expression full of nothing but affection, he said, "Sorry I was gone so long."

"That's alright," she said, and kissed him lightly on the nose. "Although I didn't expect you to be gone quite this long! It's freezing in here! I almost considered crawling out of bed to tend to the fire myself."

He winced. "Sorry, I'll get it up and goin' again, don't you worry."

He ducked out of the bedroom to rekindle the fire; it didn’t take much effort to get it roaring once more, and as he hurried back to the bedroom he could already feel the air beginning to warm up once again.

When he returned, he glanced around the room thoughtfully. Maybe his idea of moving their bed into the main room wasn't that bad. Especially since winter was finally really setting in, having Lysithea close to their primary source of warmth was probably the best decision. Double especially since she'd been complaining about the cold more and more, even on the warmer days.

He nodded to himself, deciding he'd bring up the idea later.

Lysithea, meanwhile, opened the bag, positively salivating as she pulled out a plain cardboard box. Flipping open the top, the brightness of her smile nearly blinded Cyril as she looked at the vanilla-frosted round cake within, elegantly decorated in prettily frosted flowers. ‘My Princess’ was written in a delicate cursive across the top.

“Oh my, it’s beautiful, Cyril! More beautiful than I imagined! It would almost feel a shame to eat something so immaculate!”

“Well,” Cyril said with a chuckle, “I _ guess _ we could hang it up on the wall. Dunno how long it’d keep’s the only problem, though.”

“I _ did _ say _ almost_.”

With another chuckle, Cyril opened up the drawer on the bedside table, pulling out a dulled knife and fork. He handed them to Lysithea before stripping off his overcoat and draping it across a wooden chair near situated near the table.

Circling around the bed, he crawled onto his side, propping himself up on his side while he watched her slowly cut into the cake. She glanced at him sideways, a fondness entering her expression as she forked a piece of the freshly cut cake and held it out to him. He shook his head.

“Nope, first bite’s all yours.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a giggle, and popped the piece into her mouth.

Cyril’s reward for his long trek came in the form of Lysithea’s expression of pure bliss the instant it hit her taste buds, and she let out an adorable noise of pleasure as she chewed.

“Mmm, it’s _ so good _!” she exclaimed, barely bothering to swallow before talking. She cut another small piece and again offered it to Cyril, who accepted this time.

He closed his eyes as he chewed; he wasn’t one for sweets, not like Lysithea was, but this cake was certainly among the best he’d ever tasted. He swallowed and smacked his lips satisfactorily, opening his eyes to see Lysithea going in for a much bigger piece.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, idly reaching a hand to Lysithea’s hair, gently running his fingers through a section of it.

Her long, white hair had lost most of its sheen, now dull and beginning to frizz from an inability for them to properly care for it; Lysithea refused to have it cut, however. That was one thing she’d been most stubborn about.

(Cyril still found it just as beautiful as the rest of her.)

“So, what made you bring those out?” Cyril asked, nodding towards the stack of letters on the table.

A tinge of pink highlighted Lysithea’s cheeks and she took a moment to chew thoughtfully before replying, “I missed you all day. Reading your words, in your handwriting is… comforting.”

The way she flusteredly shoveled another forkful of cake into her mouth made him grin like a fool.

They laid together for a while, chatting idly about those letters - love letters, ones Cyril had written near weekly over two years ago, before and after Lysithea had rejected his first proposal.

“I woulda left it alone if ya just weren’t into me,” he said with a laugh, lounging on his back, having stolen one of Lysithea’s dozen or so pillows. “But once I knew you were in love with me too, ain’t no way I was lettin’ ya just brush me off.”

Having devoured a sizable portion of the cake, Lysithea closed up the box. Her hands shook ever so slightly as she set the box and utensils aside in favor of picking up the topmost letter.

“I was… frightened, of something happening between us,” she admitted as she thumbed the letter in her hand, her name written across the top in that familiar, scrawly writing. “I’ve known… for quite a while, that my time... isn’t…”

She huffed. Cyril glanced over to find her staring at him, her gaze equal parts tender and wistful.

“This is the most selfish thing I will ever say, but… I’m so thankful that you didn’t give up on me.”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Cyril immediately sat up, scooting closer so as to gingerly pull her into him. She rested her head against the crook of his neck and closed her eyes, while he carefully pulled her down to lay at his side.

They laid that way for a long while. She didn’t cry, and neither did he, as the weight of her words hung over them both like a guillotine. He just pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, stroked her hair soothingly, and held her close, as close as he could, as if he were afraid to let go.

After some time, after it had already grown nearly too dark to see in the room, Lysithea spoke again, her voice weak, betraying her exhaustion.

“Cyril?”

“Yeah, Lysithea?”

“I lied. I’m going to say one more selfish thing.”

His chest tightened. “What is it?”

She swallowed hard.

“You can’t… you can’t forget me. When I’m... gone. Okay?”

He felt a lump form in his throat.

“I don’t want you to… dwell on me, or let me stop you from living, or even… even moving on, but… you just… You have to... remember me. This.” She nuzzled closer, the hand laying on his chest clenching into a fist. “Us.”

Cyril couldn’t speak.

An entire year of repressed dread and grief, the emotions he’d never allowed himself to feel yet had been steadily building every time he forced himself into denial, suddenly crashed upon him. Anguish clutched at his throat, stealing the breath from his lungs, crushing his windpipe. Never mind talking, the weight of it all barely left him able to breathe.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to force those feelings back down once again, forcing himself to calm down, to breathe - breaking down here, now, wouldn’t do any good for either of them.

“‘Course…”

His voice was shaken, drowned in so much grief that he wasn’t sure for a moment that it was even his, and he grabbed the fist on his chest, lacing their fingers together.

“Lys, I… ‘course I couldn’t forget you. The… the goddess herself would hafta will it, and even then, I wouldn’t. Never. Not on my life. I’ll love you ‘til the day I die, and even longer after.”

Lysithea let out a quiet noise, and Cyril couldn’t tell whether it was a laugh or a sob.

“Thank you, Cyril,” she said, her voice equally as wavering. “I love you. You… You’ve made me so... _bappy_.”

There was a quiet pause, and then, despite themselves, they laughed.

It wasn’t long after that Lysithea drifted off to sleep, and once she did, Cyril held her ever so slightly tighter, and finally allowed himself to cry.

\---

It was a few weeks after that Byleth received a letter. Looking over it, her heart dropped as she saw her name written across the top in a familiar, scrawly hand.

She called for Claude, who sat with her as he read it aloud, his strong arm around her shoulders the only thing keeping her grounded.

The letter was short, concise. Claude’s voice cracked as he finished reading, and Byleth curled into him, burying her face in his shoulder as, for the first time in years, she wept.

‘_She’s gone. Be back at the monastery in a week. Thank you for giving me time_.’

\---

That small, fairy tale-like cabin they shared, settled deep in a forest on the outskirts of town, had belonged to Lysithea’s parents. They'd been planning to live there with their daughter after she returned from relinquishing their noble claim, but her engagement to Cyril changed their plans.

Instead, it became a wedding gift, bequeathed to them so that the two could spend the rest of her days out of the public’s eye. A quiet, secluded place to live with her new husband until the end.

Though he was grateful for this cozy cabin that quickly became a home, Cyril couldn’t help the morbid thoughts that plagued the back of his mind, the unspoken thought on _ everyone’s _ mind.

This certainly was a beautiful place to die.

He’d seen people die of all sorts of things of course, from gaping wounds, violent beatings, executions, poison, _ everything_. Death and brutality, pain, and violence were inextricable to him. That Lysithea could end up like that - _would_ end up like that, no matter what he did - haunted him most nights. He couldn't picture a "peaceful" death.

Of course, he’d gone into this relationship knowing Lysithea was going to die sooner than either of them wished. When he proposed, she made him swear that he wouldn’t dwell on the clock counting down to the end; Lysithea wanted him to make her happy, and for him to be happy with her in turn, not obsess over a future without her - like she had when she was younger.

Still, in his darkest moments when he couldn’t sleep despite the angel beside him, his mind would torture him, replacing the face of every corpse burned into his memories with hers.

Only a year had passed since their wedding before she started to grow weaker; walking became a challenge, as did magic, eventually. Her frustration in this regard was palpable: A prodigy of her caliber, reduced to barely being able to cast the simplest spell.

What a disgrace, he'd heard her say on occasions she thought he wasn't listening. What good were her crests if this was their cost?

It wasn’t long after that she was bedridden more hours in the day than not, unable to walk by herself anymore.

Around that time was when Cyril had requested that Archbishop Byleth relieve him from his duties, just for a while. He’d return when Lysithea no longer needed him at her side all hours of the day.

Byleth agreed - of course she agreed. Promised to drop by when she could. Hugged him, in a tight, firm way, unfitting of an Archbishop. When she pulled away, she looked so… heartbroken. She didn’t say why and he didn’t ask.

They both knew what would eventually bring him back to service in the monastery.

The ticking in his head had never been louder.

Despite it all, Cyril kept his promise. Neither he nor Lysithea spoke of her failing health, even as she grew physically and visibly weaker.

Soon enough, Lysithea was resigned to their bedroom almost entirely, requiring Cyril to carry her if she requested to leave. Even still, despite the painful squeeze in his chest every time he had to lift her up and feel how feather-light she had become, they both pretended that nothing was wrong. That this was… normal.

It was less painful to deny what was so clearly evident, than it was to just admit it: His princess was dying. This fairy tale was coming to a close, and there was no happily ever after in sight.

Still. They tried to be happy. They were happy, for the most part. They were together. What right did he have to complain, when the goddess had already given him so much?

So, instead of talking about the end, they talked about the future like it was an inevitability.

Of Lysithea going back to the monastery with Cyril, to continue researching and learning, to maybe teach at the Officer’s Academy, if Byleth would allow it (of course she would, Lysithea was one of her most prized students, after all).

Of their kids - Lysithea wanted at least two, Cyril would be happy with however many the goddess gave them - and what they’d name them (it took an entire night of convincing for Lysithea to agree that, fine, _ one _ may be named after Lady Rhea).

Of what their lives would be like ten, twenty, thirty, forty years in the future, when Cyril had long retired from the Knight’s of Seiros and Lysithea had passed on all of her knowledge to some worthy apprentice (one much like herself, of course, brilliant and powerful to their core).

Of a world where ‘the rest of their lives’ didn’t mean Cyril becoming a widower in his twenties (that night was the first time Lysithea had truly cried in front of him).

In retrospect, Cyril supposed he was thankful that Lysithea had made it to their second anniversary. Two full years at the side of the woman he loved - no matter how painful, how hard and frustrating it had been for the both of them - was more than he’d ever have dared to ask of the goddess. Even though every passing day was looking more and more like their last, this had to be enough.

So, when the day of their anniversary came, and Lysithea, looking just a touch more lively than she’d been for months, requested he go into town and buy them a cake - “The prettiest, most deliciously sweet looking cake you can find!” - he had no choice but to do as she asked.  
  
After all, he’d do anything to see that smile again.

**Author's Note:**

> The title - and the fic itself, really - was inspired by the song "Hurts Like Hell" by Fleurie.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading 💙


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